Changes
by triedunture
Summary: Some things never change. Some things don't need to. And some can't remain the same. HouseWilson preslashy
1. Chapter 1

Wilson found the yellowed, brittle paper shoved between a filing cabinet and the wall. The rest of the office had been cleared out. After nearly thirty years in pediatrics, Dr. Lawson was retiring, and his prime office space was up for grabs. Wilson wasn't eager to steal it away from the outgoing colleague; he liked his current office well enough. It had the proper balcony. But the elderly doctor had asked him one last favor as he left. "Those old files are just so damn heavy," he had grunted with a wave of his hand. "Would you mind terribly…?"

Of course, Wilson couldn't say no. It wasn't too much of a task to carry the reams of paperwork to Cuddy's office, where she could sort them to her heart's content.

But that little scrap of paper peeked out from behind the filing cabinet, and Wilson, ever so meticulous, couldn't leave it there. He stooped to his knees on the worn, gray carpet and gently extracted the old newsprint from its hiding place. Wilson gave a laugh when he saw the date on the newspaper's front page. God, Lawson hadn't cleaned the place since the late '70s, it seemed.

That would have been the end of that, except Wilson scanned the paper's modest title: _The Johns Hopkins News-Letter_. Made sense; Lawson was an alumnus. A quick bout of mental math, and Wilson gave a hum of surprise. 1979. House had been an undergrad then, hadn't he?

Sitting firmly on the floor now, Wilson looked around the empty room. The door was only cracked a little, and the pediatric hall was quiet at this late hour. There weren't any pressing cases he had to attend to at the moment. No harm, then, in carefully peeling the paper open.

It was a tiny slice of history inside the old student paper. The op-eds were full of debate about Cambodia, the YMCA song, and, Wilson scoffed, abortion. Some things never change, he thought. He turned some more pages.

And he lost his breath.

Because right there, on the front page of the sports section, was a piece on the champion men's lacrosse team. The article lauded last year's win, and expounded on the Blue Jay's chances for another championship. Wilson wasn't paying any attention to the words, though. He was too busy studying the black and white photograph that accompanied it, a blurry picture of the players on the field, presumably during practice. And there was House, in the thick of things, wielding the crosse with vigor, if that frozen look of ferocity in his eyes said anything.

Wilson frowned. It was difficult to imagine House playing any type of team sport. The image came to Wilson's mind: a very tiny House, sent home from grade school with a note that said, "Does not play well with others."

Wilson opened the paper to see another photo below the fold, this time of the team captain in the foreground, some clean-cut boy with his hands on his hips. But in the background, the other players dawdled. Wilson found House near the back. The picture had captured him looking at something off camera, his stick held absently, nearly vertical in the air between two fingers. It took Wilson a moment to realize that House was twirling it, just like he did with his cane.

Always a show-off.

Wilson continued to pore over both pictures, squinting to catch every last detail. He was looking for something noticeable, some secret clue from House's history. But all the differences seemed superficial.

House's hair was darker and thicker. His face was shaven smooth. And, of course, he stood on both legs. Ran, even. In the first picture, he looked about to dive after a small rubber ball like a hawk would dive for a mouse.

And that was just it. Wilson would recognize that face anywhere. He traced his fingertips over the small figure of a younger House, twirling his stick with a distracted look on his face.

"Can't wait for Lawson's cologne to dissipate before you take over his office?" a gruff voice called from the doorway. Wilson jumped, startled, before turning around to look at House.

"I don't want his office," he repeated for the third time that day. For some reason, House hadn't believed him the first couple times. "I told him I'd take care of his old files."

House snorted and advanced into the room, his cane leading the way. Wilson thought about folding the paper in his lap shut, but the guilty look on his face had already given him up. There was no hiding it from House now. He was too fast.

House leaned over his shoulder, balancing both hands on top of his cane. To fill up the sudden quiet, Wilson explained, "I found it while cleaning."

After a moment, House said matter-of-factly, "We won that year. And the year after."

"You were that good?" Wilson asked with only a hint of incredulity.

"_I_ was. Can't speak for the other slackers," he answered.

Wilson shook his head, a smile on his face. He folded the paper with great care. "I think I'll keep it," he said, "unless you want it."

House didn't answer, and didn't even ask what Wilson was going to keep it for. He just watched the other doctor get to his feet before bringing up the subject of dinner.

"If you buy, I'll let you choose," he promised. "As long as you choose Thai."

Wilson sighed and held the door open for him. "Thai it is," he mumbled, watching House shuffle out into the hall. He held the delicate paper in his hand, and felt another smile spread across his face.

Some things, he thought, don't need to change.

* * *

_Author's Note: My very first House fic. This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. _


	2. Chapter 2

"I'll order dinner," House said, flipping his cell phone open and ignoring a woman who held the front door for him. He limped into the parking lot, still scrolling through his numbers. "The last time you called, they held back on the heat." He smirked and lifted the phone to his ear. "The counter girl must've sensed the frailty in your voice."

"That's absurd," Wilson scoffed. He pulled his scarf tighter around his neck with one hand, clutching his briefcase with the other. It had snowed again after the sun went down, and a fine layer of powder covered all the cars surrounding the hospital. The maintenance crew had only enough time to clear a few paths through the lot, and Wilson hoped there was a clear way to his car. For House's leg's sake. "I can take as much spicy food as you. I love spice. I live for spice."

"That a dare?" House grinned before diverting all his attention to his phone. "Sa dat khrap. Glub baan, daiprod." 

"Wait, you speak Thai? Why do you always make me order, then?" Wilson cried, flinging his arms out as if to say to the world, "Why me?" 

House waved him off and continued speaking into the phone. The only words Wilson could make out were "pad thai." House laughed at something the counter girl said, and with a quick "sa dat wee," he clicked his phone shut.

"She asked if Mister House was ordering the pad thai for a lady friend who doesn't like it hot." He quirked his head to the side and leaned on his cane, heedless of the icy pavement. "I told them to keep the chilies. Broaden your womanly horizons."

"Jerk." Wilson pushed at House's shoulder. The tip of House's cane slipped in the frost and he lurched to the side. He would have fallen if Wilson hadn't lunged forward to hold him by the elbow.

"Hey, cripple here!" House cried, poking his cane at the toe of Wilson's left shoe. "I go down in this weather, I break a bone! And there's only one good leg left."

"Sorry," Wilson said, releasing his hold. His face began turning a bright red that had nothing to do with the winter air. "That was stupid of me."

"Sure was," the older doctor muttered, dusting imaginary dirt from his coat. Wilson stuck his hands in his pockets and turned to continue onward to the car. His face felt hot as he silently berated himself. What was he thinking, being so careless like that?

These thoughts simmered in his mind for a few moments before he was knocked down by a slightly-lopsided flying tackle. All the air rushed from his lungs as they landed in a snow drift beside a bench.

House grinned like a maniac as he pushed his friend's head deeper into the fresh snow. "Oldest trick in the book, Jimmy," he said. "What happened to your guard?"

Wilson could only gape like a landed fish as House shoveled prickly cold snow down his collar. When the wetness soaked through to his skin, Wilson finally gave a yelp and retaliated by shoving snow into House's hair. But it only stuck in a few places, and it wasn't enough to stop the madman from his impromptu wrestling match.

Before he even realized it, he was laughing. They both were.

Wilson fought back valiantly, trying to wriggle out from under House. But as old and oft-infirm as the other doctor was, House was still pretty spry. Wilson wished his numb fingers could scramble to his briefcase, which would have been a good shield or weapon, but it had slid out of reach. Another aborted attempt to grasp the black handle only earned him a handful of snow in his unprotected eyes.

"This means war," he warned, wiping his face and panting for breath.

"Bring it, Little Miss Naïve," House taunted, holding him down by the wrists.

"Gentlemen." Cuddy's voice rang like a clear bell in the empty parking lot, and both men froze in the snow drift to look up at her. A chunk of white powder dropped from House's curly hair onto Wilson's stomach, and Wilson couldn't suppress another snort of laughter.

The Dean placed her hands on her trim hips and, with a sigh, calmly said, "You are both department heads. And, I might venture to add, grown men. Maybe you should act like it." She tugged her brown leather gloves on her hands.

"Geez, mom," House huffed. "You never let us play like the other kids."

"And get off of Wilson," she added before turning away. "He's going to be frozen solid."

A soft _whffft_ was the only warning before the snowball landed on Cuddy's shoulder. She whirled around, her brows knitted in frustration. Both men pointed a finger at each other.

"You two are impossible," she growled, stalking off towards her car. "Go home, already!" she yelled over her shoulder.

"Well, that Thai isn't going to pick itself up," Wilson conceded. Once Cuddy was out of earshot, he asked, "Your leg?"

House sat back, now straddling Wilson hips properly. "You broke the brunt of my fall," he grunted, grabbing his cane from the snowy sidewalk and using it to regain his feet. "Feels pretty good, actually."

"Glad to be of service," Wilson grumbled. He picked himself up and shook his coat to get rid of the snow sticking to it, inside and out. House kicked the black briefcase over to him, and Wilson bent to retrieve it. "Did you see how pissed Cuddy was?"

"Yeah." The cane tapped on the ground steadily as House smirked. "You have pretty good aim. For a girl."

When he straightened, he saw House eyeing him with that hard, blue gaze. Wilson thought to hide the shivers from the melting snow under his shirt, but he knew House had already noticed. Now he seemed to be gauging how bad it was.

"We'll eat at my place," House concluded after a moment. "Closer. And funnier-looking dry clothes." With a nod, he began limping once again in the direction of Wilson's car.

Wilson was about to follow when a shot of panic stabbed through his heart. He jammed his hand into first his right, then left coat pocket until he found the old newspaper. It had gotten wet from their snow fight, and the faded newsprint was now runny and blurred. He could barely make out the shapes in the pictures; House's face was now just a dark smudge.

Wilson returned the newspaper to his pocket with a sigh. Oh well, he thought. This moment was more important anyway.

He rubbed his arms to stay warm and walked after his friend.


End file.
